Excerpt
Fourteen kilometers. Murad has pondered that
number hundreds of times in the last year, trying to
decide whether the risk was worth it. Some days, he
told himself that the distance was nothing, a brief
inconvenience, that the crossing would take as
little as thirty minutes if the weather was good.
He'd spend hours thinking about what he would do
once he was on the other side, imagining the job,
the car, the house. Other days, he could think only
about the coast guards, the ice-cold water, the
money he'd have to borrow, and he'd wonder how
fourteen kilometers could separate not just two
countries, but two wholly different universes.
Tonight the sea appears calm, with only a slight
wind now and then. The captain has ordered all the
lights turned off, but with the moon up and the sky
clear, Murad can still see around him. The six-meter
Zodiac inflatable is meant to accommodate eight
people. Thirty huddle in it now-men, women, and
children-all with the anxious look of those whose
destinies are in the hands of others-the captain,
the police, God.
Murad has three layers on: undershirt,
turtleneck, and jacket; below, a pair of thermal
underwear, jeans, and sneakers. With only three
hours' notice, he didn't have time to get waterproof
pants. He touches a button on his watch, a Rolex
knockoff he bought from a street vendor in Tangier,
and the display lights up: 3:15 AM. He scratches at
the residue the metal bracelet leaves on his wrist,
then pulls his sleeve down to cover the timepiece.
Looking around him, he can't help but wonder how
much Captain Rahal and his gang stand to make. If
the other passengers paid as much as Murad did, the
take is almost 600,000 dirhams, enough for an
apartment or a small house in a Moroccan beach town
like Asilah or Cabo Negro.
He looks at the Spanish coastline, closer with
every breath. The waves are inky black, except for
hints of foam here and there, glistening white under
the moon, like tombstones in a dark cemetery. Murad
can make out the town where they're headed. Tarifa.
The mainland point of the Moorish invasion in 711.
Murad used to regale tourists with anecdotes about
how Tariq Ibn Ziyad had led a powerful Moor army
across the Straits and, upon landing in Gibraltar,
ordered all the boats burned. He'd told his soldiers
that they could march forth and defeat the enemy or
turn back and die a coward's death. The men had
followed their general, toppled the Visigoths, and
established an empire that ruled over Spain for more
than seven hundred years. Little did they know that
we'd be back, Murad thinks. Only instead of a fleet,
here we are in an inflatable boat-not just Moors,
but a motley mix of people from the ex-colonies,
without guns or armor, without even a charismatic
leader.
It's worth it, though, Murad tells himself. Some
time on this flimsy boat and then a job. It will be
hard at first. He'll work in the fields like
everyone else, but he'll look for something better.
He isn't like the others-he has a plan. He doesn't
want to break his back for the spagnol, spend the
rest of his life picking their oranges and tomatoes.
He'll find a real job, where he can use his
training. He has a degree in English and, in
addition, he speaks Spanish fluently, unlike some of
the harragas.
His leg goes numb. He moves his ankle around. To
his left, the girl (he thinks her name is Faten)
shifts slightly, so that her thigh no longer presses
against his. She looks eighteen, nineteen maybe. "My
leg was asleep," he whispers. Faten nods to
acknowledge him but doesn't look at him. She pulls
her black cardigan tight around her chest and stares
down at her shoes. He doesn't understand why she's
wearing hijab on her hair for a trip like this. Does
she imagine she can walk down the street in Tarifa
in a headscarf without attracting attention? She'll
get caught, he thinks.
Back on the beach, while they were waiting for
Rahal to get ready, Faten sat alone, away from
everyone else, as though she were sulking. She was
the last one to climb into the boat, and Murad had
to move to make room for her. He couldn't understand
her reluctance-it didn't seem possible to him that
she would have paid so much money and not been eager
to leave when the moment came.
Across from Murad is Aziz. He's tall and lanky
and he sits hunched over to fit in the narrow space
allotted to him. This is his second attempt at
crossing the Straits of Gibraltar. He'd told Murad
that he'd haggled with Rahal over the price of the
trip, argued that, as a repeat customer, he should
get a deal. Murad had tried to bargain, too, but in
the end, he still had to borrow almost 20,000
dirhams from one of his uncles, and the loan is on
his mind again. He'll pay his uncle back as soon as
he can get a job.
Aziz asks for a sip of water. Murad hands over
his bottle of Sidi Harazem and watches him take a
swig. When Murad gets the bottle back, he offers the
last bit to Faten, but she shakes her head. Murad
was told he should keep his body hydrated, so he's
been drinking water all day. He feels a sudden urge
to urinate and leans forward to contain it.
Next to Aziz is a middle-aged man with greasy
hair and a large scar across his cheek, like Al
Pacino in Scarface. He wears jeans and a
short-sleeved shirt. Murad heard him tell someone
that he was a tennis instructor. His arms are
muscular, his biceps bulging, but the energy he
exudes is rough, like that of a man used to trouble
with the law. Murad notices that Scarface has been
staring at the little girl sitting next to him. She
seems to be about ten years old, but the expression
on her face is that of an older child. Her eyes,
shiny under the moonlight, take up most of her face.
Scarface asks her name. "Mouna," she says. He
reaches into his pocket and offers her chewing gum,
but the girl quickly shakes her head.
Her mother, Halima, asked Murad the time before
they got on the boat, as though she were on a
schedule. Now she gives Scarface a dark, forbidding
look, wraps one arm around her daughter and the
other around her two boys, seated to her right.
Halima's gaze is direct, not shifty, like Faten's.
She has an aura of quiet determination about her,
and it stirs feelings of respect in Murad, even
though he thinks her irresponsible, or at the very
least foolish, for risking her children's lives on a
trip like this.
On Aziz's right is a slender African woman, her
cornrows tied in a loose ponytail. While they were
waiting on the beach to depart, she peeled an orange
and offered Murad half. She said she was Guinean.
She cradles her body with her arms and rocks gently
back and forth. Rahal barks at her to stop. She
looks up, tries to stay immobile, and then throws up
on Faten's boots. The girl cries out at the sight of
her sullied shoes.
"Shut up," Rahal snaps.
The Guinean woman whispers an apology in French.
Faten waves her hand that it's okay, says she
understands. Soon the little boat reeks of vomit.
Murad tucks his nose inside his turtleneck. It
smells of soap and mint and it keeps out the stench
but, within minutes, the putrid smell penetrates the
shield anyway. Now Halima sits up and exhales
loudly, her children still huddling next to her.
Rahal glares at her, tells her to hunch down to keep
the boat balanced.
"Leave her alone," Murad says.
Halima turns to him and smiles for the first
time. He wonders what her plans are, whether she's
meeting a husband or a brother there or if she'll
end up cleaning houses or working in the fields. He
thinks about some of the illegals who, instead of
going on a boat, try to sneak in on vegetable trucks
headed from Morocco to Spain. Last year, the Guardia
Civil intercepted a tomato truck in Algeciras and
found the bodies of three illegals, dead from
asphyxiation, lying on the crates. At least on a
boat there is no chance of that happening. He tries
to think of something else, something to chase away
the memory of the picture he saw in the paper.
The outboard motor idles. In the sudden silence,
everyone turns to look at Rahal, collectively
holding their breath. "Shit," he says between his
teeth. He pulls the starter cable a few times, but
nothing happens.
"What's wrong?" Faten asks, her voice laden with
anxiety.
Rahal doesn't answer.
"Try again," Halima says.
Rahal yanks at the cable.
"This trip is cursed," Faten whispers. Everyone
hears her.
Rahal bangs the motor with his hand. Faten
recites a verse from the second Sura of the Qur'an:
"God, there is no God but Him, the Alive, the
Eternal. Neither slumber nor sleep overtaketh Him-"
"Quiet," Scarface yells. "We need some quiet to
think." Looking at the captain he asks, "Is it the
spark plug?"
"I don't know. I don't think so," says Rahal.
Faten continues to pray, this time more quietly,
her lips moving fast. "Unto Him belongeth all that
is in the heavens and the earth-"
Rahal yanks at the cable again.
Aziz calls out, "Wait, let me see." He gets on
all fours, over the vomit, and moves slowly to keep
the boat stable.
Faten starts crying, a long and drawn-out whine.
All eyes are on her. Her hysteria is contagious, and
Murad can hear someone sniffling at the other end of
the boat.
"What are you crying for?" Scarface asks, leaning
forward to look at her face.
"I'm afraid," she whimpers.
"Baraka!" he orders.
"Leave her be," Halima says, still holding her
children close.
"Why did she come if she can't handle it?" he
yells, pointing at Faten.
Murad pulls his shirt down from his face. "Who
the hell do you think you are?" He's the first to be
surprised by his anger. He's tense and ready for an
argument.
"And who are you?" Scarface says. "Her
protector?"
A cargo ship blows its horn, startling everyone.
It glides in the distance, lights blinking.
"Stop it," Rahal yells. "Someone will hear us!"
Aziz examines the motor, pulls at the hose that
connects it to the tank. "There's a gap here," he
tells Rahal, and he points to the connector. "Do you
have some tape?" Rahal opens his supplies box and
takes out a roll of duct tape. Aziz quickly wraps
some around the hose. The captain pulls the cable
once, twice. Finally the motor wheezes painfully and
the boat starts moving.
"Praise be to God," Faten says, ignoring
Scarface's glares.
The crying stops and a grim peace falls on the
boat.
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